But I was due for a disappointment. The radiesthesist had quit. She had become unsure of her own skill, although still convinced of the value of the pendulum, and had decided to hang up her bob and string and rod, and lead a quiet life of retirement. After the anticipation, I couldn’t face seeking a replacement. She had come highly recommended by the tarot reader, and I tried to convince her to take on one last case. She held firm, but when I persisted she made another suggestion.

She recommended that I consult a clairvoyant in Paris – ‘the best in France’ – and gave me the details. ‘This number is not available to the general public, you are very privileged to get it,’ she told me.

20

The clairvoyant’s website spoke of visions facilitated by crystal balls covered in wisps of black muslin, but as I read on my shiver of apprehension was tempered by the usual rush of scepticism. She was ‘France’s most famous clairvoyant’, with a long list of celebrities and minor royal figures as clients. Every night she was invited to ‘parties, dinners, openings, events’. According to the website Mme Clairvoyant had a waiting list six months’ long but I booked an appointment in a few weeks’ time, and made my travel arrangements.

The clairvoyant lived in an impressive apartment block near the Boulevard St-Germain, on the Left Bank. Looking up from the pavement, I could see wisteria straddling the gaps along the fourth-floor balconies, running the length of the building. The usual massive communal doors of Parisian apartments led into a mirrored hallway, with a rank of high-powered all-terrain pushchairs parked under the last loop of the staircase. The secretary on the intercom murmured ‘fourth floor’ and I squeezed into a tiny lift that had been cunningly inserted into the stairwell, as nineteenth-century grandeur was sacrificed to convenience. Even alone I felt my personal space was being infringed, although the maximum possible weight was apparently three people. As I emerged from the lift and took a few deep breaths to prepare myself, I bumped into the concierge who was distributing the mail to the apartments.

The door was immediately opened by an elegant, beautifully clad lady in pressed white linen trousers and shirt, who held out her hand in welcome. As I shook her hand and tried to step through the half-open door, my foot tripped on the mat in the hallway, under which the concierge had left the post, including letters and packages. It was not the entry I had planned, but I warmed to the lady as she swooped gracefully down to extricate her mail with some aplomb.